Saturday 30 April 2011

Language Conversation (III)


Men pride themselves of social welfare
Wrong. In the Sentence Republic
The archetypal tenets of social welfare
Reveal, of that let’s be clear
Men dish cents to the aged
Throw a dime to persons with disability
And let them fend for themselves
And they call that social welfare?
Last time I checked, I thought
It meant appreciation, not ridding off
Buying off with ‘a-cent-keep-mum’
In Sentence Republic, all segments
Are housed—we call that a sentence
To keep them from cold, a fort protects
Them—we call that a book
And that term ‘persons with disability’
In Sentence Republic, that demeans
If one of our own is insufficient we say
‘in want of more inspiration, still blooming’
And if a comma leaps and falls down the
Cliff of long-winding sentences
We nurse him, we don’t say ‘he fell!’
We say, ‘look, his adventurous self
Won’
Then we treat him—
We call that editing
No comma, no colon, no hyphen
Is unappreciated—
We call that proof-reading
In full glory, we let all of them
The subjects, verbs, adverbs, objects
Punctuation march before man’s eyes
His uuuuuhs and aaaaaaahs to be heard
Of proud sentences, adorned with
Full ceremonial regalia—
We call that publishing
But what of Man Republic?
Despite a comma’s effort
Of assisting a subordinate clause
All praise would be heaped on
A sentence—in all grandeur of selfishness
In Sentence Republic we don’t do that!
We went past that smokescreen!


C) Lorot Salem 2011

Language Conversation (II)





Men pride themselves of unity
Wrong. The miracle of homogeneity
Lies in a coherent sentence
Subjects rule in Sentence Republic
In Man Republic subjects are slaves, the ruled
Sometimes they are loud, sometimes not so
In Sentence-speak, we say active and passive
But in Man Republic loud is quashed
Can man beat Subject-Verb agreement?
Can man outdo dovetailed sentences?


They don’t discriminate
In Sentence Republic, equal parts
Take their rightful positions
Whether they be subjects, verbs,
Adverbs, objects
In Man Republic they have to enshrine
Them in their constitutions
And still despise persons with disability
Have commas and colons been discriminated?
I ask, have they been relegated in Sentence Republic?




In Sentence Republic
It is treason to plagiarize
Though they be one nation
The subjects need their cultural
Identity intact, sacrosanct
It is all that talk for indigenous peoples
But in Man Republic, they pillage, they loot
With reckless abandon, even life in hospitals
Is bought, the poor die everyday
Their politicians plagiarize falsehood
Peddle them to human conscience
They are the same old lies, who cares
About creativity
Let bridges be built where there are no rivers
Let abattoirs be built smack in the middle of farms
Debate the bills, pass the laws, blah blah blah




In Sentence Republic
Ideas are a national treasure
Conserved in some registry of
Intangible cultural assets
To be refined for a bigger cause
Tis rewarded hundred-fold
But in Man Republic
Empty talk is well identified
Recognised, rewarded
And maybe conserved
In the dry winds of his
Leeward side of development
O! This Man Republic!




In Sentence Republic
There is no sin, no grave an offence
Which can’t be forgiven
Misspelt subjects are righted
Misplaced verbs shifted
Incoherent sentences corrected
But in Man Republic
Even upon a ‘Not-guilty’ verdict
The same accusing glances burn
Rehabilitated criminals are pariahs
Forgiveness is some luxury
The heart is not keen to spend on
So, in the Republic, their men
Walk with poisoned hearts
And the baggage of loathe
Their eyes dart this way that way
Unable to have a fixed stare
Because of this guilt
O! the folly of Man Republic!


C) Lorot Salem 2011

Language Conversation (I)




Image: google



Men pride themselves of fluency
Apprenticed in the art of conversation
Wrong. In the beginning was language conversation
A pair, to wit, noun and adjective stood by
Noun intoned, “Writer, conquer me, I have a name
Just call me”
Interjecting, adjective, all pompous, bragged,
“When you name him, name him well, I know him
Call on me”
Overhearing the conversation, another pair,
To wit, a verb and an adverb, scurried forth
Adverb jeered, “O my good writer, listen not to
Our besotted noun and adjective
I can jump, I can cry, I can run, I can walk!”
“But how fast?” Adverb interrupted,
“And how long? How far?”
A conjunction stood by, miffed,
“Adverb, you loud-mouth,
You use ‘but’ and ‘and’
Those are my kittens!”
“Hey, hey! Go easy conjunction,”
Interjection cried,
“What kittens when you use ‘!’?”
The writer sat there,
Watching the drama unfold
Noun and adjective bragged
That the name God
Is theirs;
Verb and adverb, undaunted, said,
“God is a verb, He is always doing something”
“No no no,” conjunction and interjection
Opposed, “God is a conjunction. Either that
Or an interjection. He connects sentences
Of his creation which leaves us surprised”
The preposition, who had been quiet all this while
Commented, “All this while folks, you have no idea
That you are debating all this here, logically,
That’s me, folks, that’s me”



On and on, they talked,
Ad infinitum

Exercising better judgment,
The writer implored,

“Folks, you all rock,
How about teaming up
For this story, it must win a prize!”


C) Lorot Salem 2011



Shared with One Shot Wednesday Week 44



Friday 29 April 2011

How To Create A Mad Man


You stood there, Kinsman,
in the caves of Mount Kadam
In search of miraa
Propelled by instant wealth
If you chanced upon Mercury

So you walked endless miles
Entered caves, weaved through darkness
Unbeknownst to you
Drawing closer to the spirits that rule Kadam
You were irking them, putting your life
To their path of vengeance

You defied the counsel of the old
Never to set foot into the caves
For echoes of dead men could be heard
But you despised them

No you walk around in the village market
Laughing like the dead---naked
Had you listened to them
Had you not set forth to Kadam
May be your story could have been different.

C) Lorot Salem

For the prompt of Poets United The Thursday Think Tank - #46 Monsters

Ssebo, the Seven Hills!


Image credit: google



Uganda, let Kasubi Hill, Mengo Hill
Kibuli Hill, Namirembe Hill
Lubaga Hill, Nsambya
Kampala Hill—all seven hills
Watch you and weep.

Ssebo, your people say
“An elephant can never fail to
Carry its tusks”
You also say
“One who keeps saying
‘I will listen and obey’ will be
Cooked with the corn cob

Ssebo, I saw the seven hills
Irritated, their bellies shook
I don’t know what they harboured
For I don’t know the ways of the hills.

C) Lorot Salem 2011


Notes:


Some disturbing news from Uganda. Two dead, 100 injured, Dr. Kiza Besigye ( the Opposition Leader) literally stripped of his human dignity. I weep for Uganda.


Weep Not, Child




Image credit: above

I feel your remorse
The tears welling up in your eyes
For Mother Africa
As you suckle her dry tits
Weep not, Child

Weep not, Child
When your limbs are ripped by grenades
And your eyes are fed with the nakedness of Mother
In greed, in corruption, in dictatorship
Fed with hopelessness
Fed with misery
Fed with power-hunger

You see, Child
If Mother Africa was cruel enough
She would have flapped her tits to the sun
And said, “ I curse you all, let the sun and my tits
Bear me witness: you shall never know peace!”
If Mother Africa was impatient
She would have escaped to other distant lands
Get another husband and move on
If Mother Africa had no hope for us
The sun would burn with less passion
The wind would blow with less pomp
The wildebeest would never cross Mara
The hyena would never laugh
The birds would never chirp

But, such things, child
Mother Africa wouldn’t do
Never will:
Take counsel, then, child
Weep not, child
Wipe your tears
Laugh again

Weep not, child
You have cried for far too long
How long should a child cry?
Your sorrow you’ve poured to the night
A dark, solitary night of dejection
Many a tear you’ve shed to fill lakes
Many a whisper you’ve held back
For fear, for sheer fear
Till when, child?
Till when?

Step out in the sun, child
Feel its warmth burn your skin once again
Go to the rain, child
Feel the drizzle washing away your sorrow
Go to the hills and mountains, child
Feel the breath-taking beauty, inhale the fresh air
Go to the rivers and lakes, child
Feel the ankle-deep waters wash away your dusty feet
Smile again, laugh again, hope again
Weep not, child.

C) Salem Lorot 2011




Thursday 28 April 2011

I Got Interviewed


It has happened. I got interviewed at Poets United, a  robust poetry community that boasts of more than 210 active members and more than 70,000 visitors. I owe it to you, my reader, for being such an inspiration in my writing. I write for you. Thank you Sherry Blue Sky ( "Koko") for making this possible.

I also thank Tororot, the God of the Rising Sun, for lighting my path. I said that 2011 will be my poetry year.

To the many voiceless ones whose voices can't rise beyond a whisper, those suffering injustices in their varied forms and those who put their lives in the line for a better world, keep up the good work. Take consolation in the fact that though you be humiliated and harrassed and even killed whether in broad daylight or at night, in limelight or in the shadows, your whispers will all filter into an echo, an echo so loud it will ricochet off , bouncing on and on the walls of history, past, present or the future,  for the cause you fought for.

Most sincerely,
Salem Lorot " Lorot Son of the Hills"


Tuesday 26 April 2011

Through My Own Eyes


          I

           I sat with my child today
           Yet I was depressed:
           His eyes were dimmed
           The shrill in his voice disappeared
           The inquisitiveness subdued
            Shocked I was of the child’s
            Lethargy and lack of oomph
           His eyes I peeped into my own sorrow
           Cries of his friends raped by fathers like me
           Filtered into my ears
           Through my child’s eyes
            I  saw his friends selling groundnuts in the streets
           Deep into the night, I saw them washing dishes
           Early morn, I saw them carrying mountains of books
          On their backs, braving the morning cold
          Sipping sugarless porridge, skipping lunch 
          For life is rough, for fathers like me make it rough

 II
            Thrust upon the cruelty, my child’s remorse
            Alerted me of so many of his friends
            Who watches upon them?
            Who fights their small wars?
            Who protects them from early deaths?
            What generation do we lay for them?
            How do we explain our inconsistencies
            Of paternal affection, yet we defile our 3 months olds
            Of breadwinner title, yet we haul our children to the streets
            To parade their misery on the footsteps of man’s mercy
            Yet, in our lofty speeches, we talk of economic emancipation
            Emancipation amidst paedophiles?
            Emancipation in face of robbed future?
            Emancipation amid the screaming headlines?

 III
            But to appear ‘reformist’, fathers like me
            Throw in piecemeal reforms, call in on televisions
            Call the acts beastly, write to the editors
            With screaming curses, animatedly talk of the vice
            Then when some other sensational news pops—
            Say some love potion in Matuu
            All is forgotten, love is the catch word
            Thus the cycle continues
            Children whipped to death for urinating in beds
            Children stressed with Homeworks till 10 p.m
            Children made robots of learning without play
            Girls raped by fathers like me
            Girls sold to prostitution by us, their fathers
            Children fed on adult entertainment
            But, as lethargic as we are,
            These are mere statistics, some media fodder
            Till our children are the subject

      IV
            I looked through my child’s eyes today
            Yet despite the sad theme in his eyes
            When he smiled, I saw my pride swell
            His sadness is fleeting, not like mine
            Which simmers for years, when he is joyed
            Not even a century of woes bogs me down
            His joy is my joy too
            In some big way, thought I,
            These little joys spark the world
            These buds need to blossom
            If you think about it,
            This is the time, my child’s eyes
            Should brighten the world
            No more remorse
            This is the time.

            C) Lorot Salem 2011

Monday 25 April 2011

Inside a Brother’s Love Mystery Book


1.       
When the one whose hand you’re holding
Is the one who holds your heart
Brother, you are home and dry

Suddenly, music is a little bit livelier
Boring comics sound a little bit funnier
Bland meals taste a little bit tastier

When you are in true love, brother
You carry smile around as if
You are paid, you carry your shoulder high
As if they are phobic of low heights

Suddenly you wonder about some wimps
Giving love a bad name, so as a self-appointed
Martyr you draw line in the sand for love’s sake
Actually, for your love’s sake

When you love the right woman,
Who loves you back, together
You add more light to the ray of the sun
No cloud shadows your love
No soothsayer dims your love

When you strike The One, brother
You have struck gold, you ditch the mine site
Off you flee with her to the moon

Together, brother, you build a love nest
Spun by respect, rounded by patience
And even if some occasional rain-drop lets in
Your warmth lasts all rain seasons

C) Lorot Salem 2011


Task: To use the opening lines of an anonymous wedding poem, “The One”
When the one whose hand you’re holding is the one who holds your heart

Tororot, the God of the Rising Sun


1.       Tororot, the God of the Rising Sun,
Some disturbing thing:
A farmer hang himself on a tree
Because it did not rain
Beside him was his hoe

He was a retired teacher
You know that as much
From his pension
He invested it in soil
And the clouds

As the barren clouds played
Hide and seek, for days on end
Till all his maize farm wilted
This morning, we hear, he walked
To his farm and dispatched himself to you

Tororot, the God of the Rising Sun
You shine and rain, of that I know
But as I saw the limbs a limbo
And looked at his farm, I pitied
This man.

C) Lorot Salem 2011


For a prompt 2011 April PAD Challenge: Day 24 by Robert; a “prayer  poem”

Procrastinated decisions



I really wanted to write a dark poem
Of jutting eye sockets and running ghosts
But hey, dark eluded me
And so I wrote of the majesty
Of the sun that lights up dazed souls
Reminding them of the night
That was, I reminded man
Of his fellows wearing clashing colours
I find humour in such
And the occasional drunk upon being
 Stranded at cross-roads sleeps there
Till early morn, procrastinated decisions
But hey that is a stroke of genius!

C) Lorot Salem 2011

#  For Sunday Scribblings prompt #264 Shine


Diatribe to the Dying Tribe


Image credit: google:toppun.com
1.   So you are incensed, miffed because
I told you that I am incensed, miffed
By the state of the world, dreams incinerated
Never to smoke, hope choked
Never to flame, ambitions wilted
Never to blossom

And what did you say?
That I am being judgmental, a cynic
A soothsayer, a prophet of doom
For in my shady lens, I see blurred
Sketches of man’s imperfections
Rather than the ‘bigger picture’
Of man’s triumphs

I told you man’s shine
Shouldn’t be dimmed by frail moonlight shadows
That litter man’s galaxy of success
For what is a meteor’s dazzle
If after a minute of spectacle it fizzles?
What is the essence of the sun
If not to bring morning to man’s night of doom?

And what did you say, friend?
That I talked ‘abstract’ and needed
Something ‘immediate’ and ‘real’
That I was being more philosophical than
The Platos and Socrates

And to be immediate
I told you that you are an intellectual
Midget, phobic of learning, a stranded
Soul in a crowd of probing minds,
Thus, in a defeatist spirit,
You cry ‘abstract’ yet all else fits

I didn’t mean to be rude, friend
If I projected myself as such, I request
For your apology, but still
How do you speak of liberation
If you have no clue of Maji Maji and Mau Mau?
If you should talk, peel off your tribal skin
Tell me about the ocean’s tides
How it rises in tandem with man’s kites
Speak with wisdom, entrance me
Tell me about the world in 2072
Not some cheap gossips about witchhunting
That is not new, capture my imagination
With a novel idea, an idea that will save
The planet, not them-and- us cocoon

And so, to incriminate me,
You contorted my noble thoughts
Twisted them to paint me as the bad guy
Assassinated my character
Berated me, besmirched me, bespattered me
But in your bones, you know
That your life has been a lie—
A counterfeit contraband
You also know that
My thoughts stain your conscience
Because I speak from nature
I don’t build gabions in deserts
I don’t breathe helium in theatres

And so, mistakenly,
For every quadruple of accusations
You heap on me, nature throws a dozen
Of alibis, like a dove I shrug them off
Because your case is shallow, accursed
To penury of yourself, self built on quicksand
Because my case is the case of man
Not so much about me—scratch that

I had to write this to you,
Because I realized, quite surprisingly
That all the energies you summoned
Against me could easily be tapped
Into some initiative—learning maybe?
Because if you think about it
I drink the potent brew of minds
All of them combined can’t be wrong
Even if you breathe hail and brimstone
I will clinically drizzle them bit by bit
I have put out infernos-what is fire
towering in a tea glass, friend?

C) Lorot Salem 2011


This Moment


This moment, this very moment,
The adrenalin rushing through, the feeling now
Coursing through my being, seeping through
Engraving on my mind footprints
Of the flurry of thoughts
I could trade diamonds for now
It is like an antique paint of a dead painter
How do you paint it anew?
How do you reincarnate its old fragrance?

C) Lorot Salem 2011

# For a prompt by Robert Lee Brewer, 2011 April PAD challenge day 22
 “only one in the world” poem.

 

Music of My People

Image credit: google: mod.go.ke

That afternoon, music swept Kongelai
The rhythm of my people took me hostage
And so, adorned with abusibus and songol
Standing aloft my head like a steeple
Alado strangling my arm, kondi in my right hand
I whipped up a tune, a tune of my dead ancestors

The arena heated up, kirkiris sound
Gyrating its hips on people’s ear-lobes
Fire encircling the feet of undecided dancers
When the spark blew, O Kinsman, Kongelai
Was a ball of fumes, no fire-fighter could extinguish!

I ran round the Dancing Square,
With my breast beating, a song lilting in my lips
O Kinsman, how I sang in the way of our people
Soaked in sweat, my ardour scenting the spirits
Calling them to hum to the tune

I sang of the uncastrated white bull
That goered all bulls up to Karamoja
I was that bull, his horns were my arms
His hooves were my mud-bed, sacred
If I lost my voice that day, Kinsman,
That thought never crossed my mind

As the rhythm gathered pace
All I can remember is that Kongelai
Was a maiden, impressed yet
Concealed the excitement
Even as dust rose, women shrieked
The sky, in a surprise twist,
Released droplets of standing ovation.

C) Lorot Salem 2011

Notes:

Abusibus- A headgear with an ostrich feather worn by Pokots during Celebrations.
Songol- An ostrich feather.
Alado- A flywhisk tied to the arm used while dancing.
Kondi- A special horn used in Celebrations.
Kirkiris- Jingles tied to the ankles.
Kongelai- a place in Kacheliba, Kenya.

# From Jingle's prompt Poetry Potluck Muse Art and Music

 




There you Lie

Image credit: google: online-photoshoptutorials.com


1.    There you lie, motionless
Unable to breathe, stiffened
Body sprawled, a ghastly sight

There you lie, my past,
On the gravel, in bloody mess
Not a jot towering, subdued in death

There you lie, detached
Detached from all menace
Like the bare fangs of a preserved puff-adder
A shadow of a slain dragon

I feel free, free like poetic licence
In a wicked sense, grinning
At your scattered limbs,
Call me a sadist—your death ticks!

Why is it that the air is eerie then?
Why is it that I am not toasting?
Why am I still staring at you from Fifth Floor?
Why did I yank you?
Was this cruel?

C) Lorot Salem 2011


# For a prompt  Poetry Tow Truck 17: Yakkety-Yak ( Don’t Talk Back), Donna Vorreyer

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